


what do we know (about nothing at all)

by trinityghoul



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Food, Light Angst, Other, POV Second Person, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21603847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trinityghoul/pseuds/trinityghoul
Summary: "Why do you call me that?""Call you what?""Youngblood."
Relationships: The Drifter (Destiny)/Reader, The Drifter/Guardian (Destiny)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 67





	what do we know (about nothing at all)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from MIKA's "Kids". 
> 
> This fic kind of ran away from me at some point, but I hope it's enjoyable nonetheless. 
> 
> Also, I'm aware of what Drifter's ship actually looks like but like. Fanfiction.

You’re out lounging in one of the far sections of the Last City’s wall, legs dangling off a dusty crest edge. A basket lies ignored off to the side, its contents ransacked and consumed from a spontaneous evening out. You had taken one look at the pitiful view of the sunset in the Annex and dragged Drifter all the way up to the secluded spot.

You exchanged barbs and banter, memories and stories from your latest strike mission, his most recent Gambit matches. It’s a nice catch-up after all the time spent apart. You try not to think about the spontaneity welling up because you might have missed him. _Might_ being the key word. You try not to think about it too much.

“Why do you call me that?” You ask out of the blue. Drifter is basking in the last dregs of light, eyes closed as one of his legs rocks back and forth, the other propping up his arm.

He lazily opens one eye, turning his gaze towards you. You ignore your heart stuttering. “Call you what?”

“Youngblood.”

He grunts, shifting so his arms are flat on either side behind him. He doesn’t say anything for a while after that, but you press on.

“What? One question and you’re short-circuiting already?” You tease, tilting your head.

He sniffs. “Just thinkin’, that’s all.”

“Glimmer for your thoughts?” you ask, voice lilting.

He snorts at that. “Unfortunately for you, inflation’s gone way up so it’s more like you’d owe me a couple-a legendary shards.”

You roll your eyes. “Pfft, come on. If you don’t want to answer, you just have to say so.”

“Nah, nah,” he waves a hand. “Just figuring out how to phrase it in a way that makes sense.”

“I’m sure I’ll be able to figure a way through your old man talk. C’mon, try me,” you settle back, looking towards the sky, blinking as the first stars start shining around the Traveler.

He huffs. “Eager beaver, aren’t you? You know there’re folks out there that’d kill to even get a word out of me?”

You pull a face. “Don’t think killing you’s the way to getting you to talk.”

“Oh, ha-ha, aren’t you a hoot,” he replies, sarcasm thick. “I’m just sayin’, have a little patience. Be glad you’re getting an answer at all.”

“I told you you didn’t have to answer if you didn’t want to,” you mention innocently.

He squints at you, scrutinising for a few moments. “Well I want to,” he says firmly.

You smirk. “Guess you have to.”

He sighs, rubbing his face with his palm. “Always the wily ones.”

“You know other wily ones other than me? I’m insulted,” you turn to look at him, lip jutting out to a slight pout. He shakes his head as you subtly smile, both letting the conversation trail off.

It takes him a while. A while enough that the deep orange has muted to purple, curtains of Light fanning the Traveler, stars sparkling like shards of glimmer. It makes you realise how much time you’ve spent on your feet, on the next strike or hunting the next bounty. How you haven’t spent nearly enough time slowing down and appreciating moments like these.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath of crisp night air, and that’s when Drifter starts to speak.

“I call you youngblood because that’s what you are: young. And don’t even start with me,” he waves a hand, sitting up. “I’ve been through times that Guardians run away at the mention of.” And really, is he wrong? All you do is nod, aware there’s much more lurking under the surface, but you’ve never been one to pry. Sure, you jab and you tease, but from what the Nine have tried telling you… you blink and force those thoughts away, grounding yourself to the moment.

Drifter somehow doesn’t notice your internal diversion and continues. “It ain’t always a bad thing, bein’ young. Lots of potential, lots of things you have yet to go through. Always looking for the next big thing, the next adventure that’ll make your blood sing,” he turns his eyes toward the distance, his gaze even further. “Bein’… experienced,” he sighs and closes his eyes. “Can leave you cold. Weighed down by all the shit you’ve been through, the things you run from.”

He sniffs, clears his throat. “It’s a good reminder, that’s all.”

“A reminder for me or for you?” you venture.

He half-smiles, turning to meet your eyes. “That’s the million glimmer question now, isn’t it?”

* * *

“Okay, I got some Gambit matches to run for the evening,” Drifter declares, standing and stretching the lingering ache out of his bones. “Got any plans tonight?” his question gets muffled as he puts his hood and mask on, but you hear him all the same.

In fact, you’re not so sure you heard him correctly. He never does small talk, leaving these random outings without a word. You’re used to that. “I don’t think so,” you reply, as nonchalant as you can. “I might cook dinner for once,” you throw out as an afterthought.

Drifter grunts and puts his hands in his pockets, starting to walk away. You want to leave it at that, but your mouth seems to have other plans.

“Hey,” you start, ignoring the sweat building up on your nape. You hear the stop of his boot on rough ground. “Do you think I could spectate your matches tonight? I’ll just be in your ship or something.”

He turns to face you, unreadable behind the mask. “Huh, never took you for a looker.”

You shrug. “Guess I’m still full of surprises.”

He crosses his arms, silent for a moment. “Sure,” he says. You let go a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “Can’t guarantee I have anything in there for dinner, though.”

You knit your forehead then smile. “I think I can work something out.”

* * *

That ‘something’ was a quick run around in the City before heading up to the Derelict because you doubt you have anything stocked up yourself.

The entire thing feels awfully… domestic. A word that feels strange in the grand scheme of your life. You lead a life too perilous for something so maudlin, nevermind adding the Drifter to the mix. And yet here you are, fiddling with an improvised heating element after setting down the meager groceries you scraped up in the evening food hunt.

You hope Drifter won’t mind your rummaging in his cupboards for some utensils, though you twitch your eye at the Golden Age rations gathering dust in the same cabinets. No doubt the Golden Age held a big portion of technological advancements, but you seriously doubt these canned goods would last this long. With a grimace, you replace the cans after taking the pot they were hiding in.

After dusting and washing the utensils out, you set the pot on the heating element, filling it with rice and water. Then you chop up some vegetables and protein and toss them into the skillet with some oil and salt. Nothing too fancy, but substantial enough for two people. You doubt the man is picky, he’s bragged about drinking Vex milk, for Light’s sake.

That makes you pause, what if he doesn’t like ordinary foods and prefers cannibalising alien races instead? You shake your head; that’s more food for you, obviously.

“What’s cookin’, good lookin’?” comes Drifter from the door. He leans on the doorjamb, arms crossed, that same infuriating smirk on his face.

You roll your eyes. “One day that line will work on someone.”

He puts a hand over his chest, feigning offence. “I’m hurt, sugar. Don’t forget whose kitchen you’re usin’ right now.”

“Don’t forget whose cooking you’ll be eating soon enough,” you retort, stirring the rice then adding some spice to the skillet. You tell your Ghost to set a timer for ten minutes and then turn around, arms crossed. “So why are you still here? Thought you had some matches to run.”

“Thought I could grab a quick bite,” he walks closer to the stove, taking a good whiff off your cooking. You try to relax your shoulders, unsure of why they stiffened up in close proximity to Drifter anyway. “Smells real good.”

“Sure hope so,” you say wryly. “Can’t really cook up anything too fancy when it’s already past sundown. I wasn’t sure you ate normal people food anymore, actually.”

“No idea where you got that idea,” he says in a tone that belies his words. “Haven’t had a freshly cooked meal in ages, though,” he admits. “Man can’t say no to that.”

That statement softens something inside you, calls to some unknown feeling in your memory. “Well, will you mind if I deliver your portion to you down at the Ready Room?”

Drifter hums in thought, a hand on his chin. “Could finally use those hangar indicator lights,” he mumbles to himself. “Sure,” he nods, eyeing the pans. “Just make sure my food ain’t burnt. There’s still a difference between char and carbon.”

“They’ll be _fine_ ,” you say as you turn around and give the two pans a quick stir.

“Well alright, you’re the boss,” he teases as he takes his leave, throwing a casual salute over his shoulder.

You roll your eyes, getting a quick taste for seasoning. And if the vegetables are just a bit on the side of too caramelised, well, he’ll just have to deal with that.

* * *

You mixed up the fried rice and kept it warm on low heat, concealing yourself in the shadows of the Ready Room and watching the Drifter in his element.

“Opposing team, I need more motes! The rest of you, keep it up.”

It’s odd being on the other side of the glass, though you’re simply spectating off to the side where no one can see you. The whole illicit activity under the Vanguard’s nose really makes for small audiences spectating every match. An audience of one, really. The apparently losing team is all fired up, grips tight on their weapons, while the winning side is a bit more lax and you think: it’ll be an even match next round.

“Transmat firing!” he barks, and the Guardians flash out into the arena.

“As slick as my first Gambit,” you click your tongue, making your presence known as he walks towards the Observation deck. He doesn’t startle, to your mild disappointment, but he does pause and turn on his heel to face you. “Showmanship never dies, huh?”

He huffs, crossing his arms. “Gotta get the pizzazz in, keep it interesting,” he tilts his head. “Thought you were bringing me dinner?”

You widen your eyes, feigning cluelessness. “So that’s what I forgot to bring!”

“Oh ha-ha,” he rolls his eyes, turning around and gesturing for you to follow.

“But really, commentators don’t talk with a full mouth, and a cold meal just feels sad, don’t you think?” you explain, ducking into the Observation deck. He grunts in response.

The round is in full swing, both teams firing on all cylinders. Drones are taking multiple angles of each arena, two monitors dedicated to each competitor in the field. “Make yourself at home,” he gestures around the room as he sits on his awaiting throne. And just like that, he’s gone from the world, honed in on the game.

“Portal’s primed! Go make a mess.”

You lean on a dead side panel, arms crossed and eyes trained on the Drifter. You see the scars and the wrinkles highlighted by the blue light from the projected images, in movement as he calls out enemy arrivals to each team. It really does look a little like a magic show, well-coordinated and fluid as his eyes flicker to the next Vex massacre or team kill. He whoops and hollers, cheering on for any competitor that manages to catch his eye.

“Your ally’s back with two kills on their belt!”

It’s like you’re not even there. You don’t take offence to it, considering how long he’s been hosting this thing alone, considering how you become unresponsive when you’re in the heat of battle yourself. There’s always the next target, the next destination, the next world-ending threat that needs to be quelled.

“It’s not over, kill that Primeval!”

A yawning chasm spawns a Taken Captain into existence, the dull roar snapping you out of your reverie. The previously winning team is hot on their heels, their bank at 65 motes. There is a certain edge of excitement to this, the energy, the thrill, clear as day even from a screen. Perhaps that’s why Drifter’s yet to tire of hosting it.

Your eyes flicker to his profile, and you think: there’s still many things to learn about him, and some questions might never be answered.

* * *

“This stuff’s good!” he raises the bowl high across you. “Seriously, are you sure you’re not supposed to be a chef?”

You stifle a snort. “It’s just stir fry, I can’t believe your standards are that low.”

Owing to the lack of space elsewhere on the ship, Drifter set up a folding table on the platform in the Ready Room. Nothing fancy, just a table and two chairs facing each other. It’s weirdly intimate, or just plain weird.

“It’s better than what I can whip up, ain’t exactly easy to make a five star meal with Hive meat,” he counters, shovelling more food in his mouth. It’s almost grotesque to look at, it’s like the man doesn’t have a gag reflex. You look down and eat your own meal at a more sedate pace. “Any chance you have leftovers?”

“At the rate you’re going? I don’t think so. I could write down the recipe if you really want to make it,” you offer.

“Best idea I’ve heard all day,” he winks.

“I could cook some more, given that we both have the time to do stuff like this,” you hint, not wanting to look at Drifter in the eye.

“Seems like you’re just chock full of good ideas today, huh?”

“Maybe,” you shrug. “They’re only good when someone’s there to indulge me on them,” you smile impishly, finishing up your own meal.

“I hope you realise I’m a good candidate at indulging dumb ideas, the best, actually,” he brags, but still proffering his hand in the direction of your empty bowl.

“I’m just gonna ignore the fact that you called my ideas dumb, for the sake of your stomach,” you say smugly, handing over your bowl to him.

“Compromise, the art of business,” he throws out like an adage. It makes something unpleasant sink to the bottom of your stomach, and you try not to let it show, settling a placid smile on your face.

“I’m sure,” you say, keeping the cold from creeping into your tone. You stand, checking something on your Director. “Well, I should be going, then.”

That’s the first time you see a frown on his face the entire evening, he tilts his head up to look at you. “S’pose it has gotten late,” he nods slowly, and you don’t think about much else. “See you around.”

You set your transmat for the Tower, and desperately don’t think of how his gaze trains at your tense shoulders, your fingers flexing, palms twitching. You don’t think about the minute lick of his lips, the knit of his brow.

You don’t think, it would be easier not to hope.

“Goodnight, Drifter,” you nod politely, and vanish out of the Derelict.


End file.
